


you are not at war

by vardaesque (neonheartbeat)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Captain America: The Winter Soldier Spoilers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 11:54:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1427545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonheartbeat/pseuds/vardaesque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So I watched Winter Soldier and after that second after-credits scene (after the WHOLE MOVIE ACTUALLY WOW IT WAS GOOD) I needed some closure. And porn. So here are both, for your viewing pleasure.</p>
    </blockquote>





	you are not at war

**Author's Note:**

> So I watched Winter Soldier and after that second after-credits scene (after the WHOLE MOVIE ACTUALLY WOW IT WAS GOOD) I needed some closure. And porn. So here are both, for your viewing pleasure.

The Winter Soldier is on the move.

More accurately, he's ambling down side alleys in D.C., his face shoved into the collar of his stolen jacket, his hat pulled low.

He's never been aimless before, and it scares him.

He's also never been scared before, that he can remember, and the new sensation is not welcome.

He's always had a mission, an objective, somewhere to be, something to do, someone to kill—now? Nothing. No one giving him orders—

_"Your name is James Buchanan Barnes."_

He shivers, the memory sending a tingle up his spine. The first thing he had done was find himself—and find himself he had, on a glass wall in in the Smithsonian, looking younger and much happier than he was sure he'd ever felt in his long life.

But his mission (he couldn't think of the man in the blue uniform with the shield as anything other than _his mission_ ) had told him his name, and there on the wall he had seen it—therefore his mission had been telling him the truth.

How much truth was there to be found?

The Winter Soldier leans against the wall and takes a few steady breaths. Fragments of memory are beginning to seep in through the battered remains of his conscious self—the memory wipes could only do so much. They aren't helpful, though—somewhere in his memory there's a skinny kid with a straw-colored mop of hair and an overlarge jacket running after him. Handing over a penny in exchange for a small bag of candy. Shoes. A front door creaking.

But there's nothing concrete, nothing that will tell him anything absolute.

All he has are three paragraphs on a glass wall and his mission.

His mission.

The Winter Soldier opens his eyes and stares into the darkness, calculating his next objective, his new mission. He'll find Steven Rogers and keep tabs on him, try to find out anything he can about himself, his old life, what he was like when his arm was flesh and bone and not jointed metal.

He leans forward and sniffs into the wind, scenting the air like a dog on a hunt, and in the next breath he's gone as if he never existed.

After all, there's a reason he's known as a ghost.

~

Steve unlocks his door and sets his groceries on the kitchen counter, texting with one hand and putting away milk with the other. He likes text messaging, and while privately he's of the opinion that a good old-fashioned letter in the mail has a certain charm nothing electronic will ever be able to reproduce, texting is very useful in certain situations, and he's fascinated by emoticons.

He glances up and notices that his leather chair in the corner, the one by his photo album, is slightly off-center and there's an indentation in the seat cushion.

Steve frowns and edges over, looking up and down the hall for any sign of an intruder. There is none. He goes over to the chair and puts his hand on the seat. It's slightly warm, and his photo album doesn't seem to have been touched—but Steve knows better.

He picks it up and flips through it. It's here that he keeps all the old photos he can lay his hands on, any pictures of himself or Peggy or Howard or—or Bucky, or the Howling Commandos.

As he opens it to the sixth page, he realizes there's a blank space where a picture should be, where he's kept the one picture of himself and Bucky that he's ever owned. He can almost see it, imprinted on the page where it should be—himself and Bucky in grainy black and white, grinning, in full uniform, at some ceremony or other. France? Probably. He can't remember. It bothers him that he can't remember.

Then again, he _is_ ninety-five. _Lapses in memory should be expected at your age, ha ha ha_ , he says to himself, and sets the album down, checking the window.

It's locked.

There's only one person Steve can think of who would break into his apartment, steal a specific photograph, and disappear just like that.

"Bucky?" he whispers, and the air conditioning kicks on, scaring him half to death.

He sits for a while in the kitchen, drumming his fingers on the table.

That night, he leaves the window unlocked.

~

The next night, and the next, Steve doesn't notice anything off about his apartment.

On the fourth night, he opens the album and realizes that the photo of himself and Bucky has been replaced.

It's a little disquieting, but he reasons that if Bucky wanted him dead, he'd be dead. He might as well just stay quiet and let Bucky do his thing, whatever that is at the moment. Let him come back on his own instead of chasing him down with Sam.

Steve makes a pot of coffee, just in case, and goes to bed, leaving the door ajar.

He wakes up at two twenty-seven AM by his digital clock to hear a rustling movement in the hallway.

Quietly, heart pounding, he slides out of bed and peeks through the crack in the door to see a flash of silver in a black shadow moving toward his kitchen. His heart leaps into his throat.

Steve slips past his door and pads silently down the hall, following. He can hear clinking and then soft gulping sounds along with the scent of coffee, and he remembers how much Bucky loved it—even made in a thin metal pot over a fire in the rain in France. He'd bitch about the flavor but he'd drink it anyway.

_("One day, Steve," he'd say, leaning back and looking at the wet trees above them, "this war's gonna be over. And you know the first thing I'm gonna do? I'm gonna drink a whole entire pot of coffee. Not this MRE shit. Real coffee.")_

Steve edges his face around the kitchen and sees the Winter Soldier, drinking straight from the pot by Steve's kitchen sink.

"Hi," he says as quietly and non-threateningly as he possibly can.

The Winter Soldier whirls, the pot still in his mismatched hands. His wild, dark eyes stare at Steve behind a shaggy mass of dark brown hair. There's a month or so's worth of growth on his chin and cheeks. He looks like he's on the verge of falling apart, and Steve fights the urge to run over and brace him against the counter.

"Uh, do you—do you want something to eat?" he says uncertainly, and takes a few careful steps toward the fridge. "I think there's some pot roast in here. Sharon's office made me dinner on Sunday."

The Winter Soldier doesn’t run, but he doesn't come closer either. He just kind of stands there watching Steve as if he's a bomb that might go off.

"Don't disappear when I turn around to get your food, okay?" Steve says with a half-smile, and the other man gives a single, terse nod. Steve takes that as a milestone, and pulls out the roast and the potatoes, throwing it all in the microwave. "You can have the rest of the coffee—oh, I got orange juice and, uh, milk, and some other stuff in the fridge."

The Winter Soldier takes a cautious step toward the refrigerator and leans in, pulling out a bottle of water. Then he beats a hasty retreat back to the counter, where he watches Steve with hawklike eyes.

Steve pulls the food out and hands it to him with a fork. "Careful, it's hot," he says, and the man gives him the oddest look, as if no one has ever warned him against burning himself before, before shoveling the potatoes into his mouth like a starving animal, only stopping to wash it down with gulps of water.

"Holy cow," says Steve. "When was the last time you ate something?"

The Winter Soldier pauses and swallows, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "A week. I think." His voice is raw and small, rarely used.

"You sleeping on the streets?" asks Steve. The Winter Soldier nods. "You can sleep here if you want. I mean—I've got room."

He cocks his head and looks at Steve for a second, childish puzzlement on his face. "The couch," he says vaguely. "You were going to take out the trash. The…apartment."

"I—" And Steve remembers, remembers the conversation they'd had after they'd gotten back from his mother's funeral. How Bucky wanted him to move in with him. "Yeah, I was," he says with a smile. "You remember that?"

"Not really. It's—it's there. Not all of it." The Winter Soldier looks agitated, and puts down the empty plate, his metal hand glinting. "You have my file. I know you do. I want it."

Steve crosses his arms and leans against the sink. "Is that what you were coming in here for every night?"

"I was looking for information," he says. "I wanted answers. You have them all."

"I have your file." Steve shrugs. "I've read it. I was trying to find you. Gave up on that, though—I mean, I do have a day job."

"I want it," says the Winter Soldier, a note of cold anger winding into his voice.

"And I'll give it to you. But you have to promise me it won't leave my apartment. It's very sensitive information and I want it secure."

The Winter Soldier shifts a little, his eyes darting all over the place until he looks back up at Steve. "Agreed," he says.

"Great. Take a seat, I'll be right out." Steve walks to his desk in the bedroom and pulls the file out of the locked bottom drawer, the one with the fake back that he keeps important things in. He turns and sees a shadow filling the doorway, and sighs, mildly annoyed. "I thought I said—"

"I don't take orders from you," hisses the Winter Soldier, his voice unstable and threatening to break.

"Right, no, I didn't mean—"

"I don't take orders from anyone anymore. _Give me my file_."

"Buck—"

A swift punch to the gut doubles Steve over and a metal hand grapples with his flesh and blood one. They fight for a minute, twisting around, and then Steve manages to pin him down on the floor, a hand over his mouth.

"Shh," he whispers. "Hey, hey, calm down. Please. I'm sorry, okay?" He lifts his hand, and underneath him, the Winter Soldier is shaking violently, tears in his eyes.

"I'm—I'm—" he's fighting to get words out "I know you and I know I'm—James Barnes—but I can't—I don't—it's—"

"It's okay," says Steve, and sits back, suddenly very aware of how close both of them are. "Hey. It's okay—"

"I'm not a _person_ anymore," he gasps, sitting up and grabbing Steve by the biceps, making him wince. His crazed eyes are inches from Steve's. "They did this to me! Tell me what they did to me! Give me my file!"

"Bucky!" shouts Steve, and shakes him. He doesn't even react, doesn't snap out of his hysterics. Steve tries not to panic at that, and lowers his voice. "Bucky, they brainwashed you, some kind of mind-wipe, kept you a clean slate and they kept doing it and they'd freeze you until they needed you. I've got the file, you can read it—"

"Stop calling me that!" He shoves Steve away and scrambles to his feet.

"What do you want me to call you?" Steve asks, sitting on the floor.

He pauses, shakes his head. "I don't know," he says blankly.

"When you think of yourself, what's the name you use?" Steve tries again.

"I don't think of myself," says the Winter Soldier, looking at Steve with eyes deader and darker than space itself. "I'm an asset."

"You're a person," says Steve, and picks up the file, hands it to him. The metal fingers shake a little as the Winter Soldier extends his hand. "Here. Do what you want with it."

"You want it back?" It's a hesitant question, and Steve shrugs.

"I've memorized it. Do what you want."

The Winter Soldier looks down at the file and then back at Steve. "Th—thank you," he manages awkwardly, and when Steve looks up again, he's gone.

~

A week later, Steve comes home from a late meeting with Fury and Hill to find all his lights on and the Winter Soldier sitting in his leather chair, the file on his lap.

"Hey," he greets him, and goes to the fridge for the leftover smoothie he knows is in there.

"Hey," says the Winter Soldier, uncertain and slow. Steve decides that's a good step, and leans further into the fridge, still grabbing around for his glass.

Steve can't find his leftover smoothie. He bends down and peers into the fridge. "Did you—did you drink my smoothie?" he asks.

"It was good," says the Winter Soldier. "Bananas and chocolate?"

"It was going to be my snack," Steve says, glaring at him.

"I didn't see a sign on it," retorts the Winter Soldier.

"It was in _my fridge_!" Steve sighs and pours himself a glass of milk instead.

"I read the file," says the Winter Soldier a minute later. "You can have it back now."

 _That's it?_ thinks Steve. "Oh, okay."

He stands up and hands him the file, and Steve takes it. "You gonna stay the night?" he asks.

"Can I?"

"Yeah. I'll take the couch if you want." He tries to smile, but the look on the other man's face is blank and shuttered. 

"I'll sleep on the couch."

"You can use my shower if you want to," says Steve. He's trying hard to phrase everything so it's not an order. "I'm assuming your arm is waterproof?"

"Yes."

"Good. I was going to offer you a trash bag to tape your arm up in."

"Like… Seamus? He broke his ankle, didn't he? And the plaster—it had to stay dry." The Winter Soldier's eyes flicker, the blank look dissipating a little. "She taped his foot up."

"Sister Beatrice, yeah." Steve offers a half-smile.

"I'm going to shower," he says abruptly, and heads off to Steve's room.

It's a good forty minutes before he re-emerges, his hair damp, wearing a black pair of sweats Sam had left last time he'd crashed at Steve's place and nothing else. "Hey," he says warily, standing in the doorway to the kitchen. His metal arm gleams in the light from the living room.

"Hey. Are you hungry?"

His eyes snap up to the pot of spaghetti Steve's been making. "Yeah."

"Good." Steve serves him three plates of spaghetti and once he's finally done Steve finishes the pot himself, then rinses everything out and leaves the pans to soak in the sink. Two super-soldiers do not a cheap grocery bill make, he thinks to himself.

"Bucky," says the Winter Soldier, as if he's testing it. " _Bucky_."

"It's better than 'the asset'," says Steve gently.

The Winter Soldier nods, his lips pressed into a thin line. "Absolutely. Can you—say it?"

"Bucky?" asks Steve.

He thinks for a second, seems to mull something over. "Did I come up with it, or did someone else?"

"I think you must have come up with it, 'cause all the other kids on the street called you Bucky or Buck, and the first time I met you, that's how you introduced yourself." Steve smiles a little at the memory. "I don't think I knew your real name until a year later."

"If I made it myself, it's good enough for me." His voice is defiant, almost angry. "I'm Bucky. I'm—I'm James Buchanan Barnes, and the next person who tries to take that away from me is dead."

"Amen," says Steve under his breath.

Bucky stands up and goes to the sofa. "You were telling the truth about me," he says softly. "The whole time. I just didn’t know."

"Well, I didn't know a lot either, so there we go."

"I missed a lot. Big chunks of time." Bucky rubs his temples and flops down on the sofa, legs spread out, his bare feet working against the carpet. "At least you can pick up from a point and go from there. I just—got wiped, and I've got pieces in my head but nothing real."

"SHIELD might be able to help you," Steve offers. "They have a great psychology department."

"They wouldn't help me. I tried to kill them."

"You tried to kill me too, yet here I am." Steve sits down next to him.

Bucky frowns. "That's different."

"No, it isn’t. You want a blanket?"

"I—what? No. I'm fine."

"Okay. I'll just—I'm going to bed."

Bucky is silent as Steve goes to his room, and Steve lies awake a long time listening to nothing.

That changes around three AM. Steve is woken by hoarsely muffles screams coming from the living room. He bolts out of bed and skids into the couch, flipping on the light.

Bucky is on the floor, clawing at the carpet with his metal hand and screaming in Russian. His eyes are open but blank and terrified, and he won't stop howling.

"Buck, Bucky, hey, hey—" Steve bends down and wraps his arms around Bucky, reminded of the times when he would have an asthma attack and Bucky would thump him on the back— "Bucky, wake up. Bucky!"

Bucky's eyes fly wide open and he focuses on Steve's face. "Steve?" he gasps.

"Yeah. You awake?"

"Steve? Steve, help me. Please."

Steve's heart sinks. "Bucky, it's not real, c'mon, wake up—"

"Steve—Steve you came back for me come back again—Steve—where— _Steve_ —"

"I'm here," whispers Steve, and drags Bucky into a hug, rocking him gently, trying to wake him up. "I'm here now. Bucky. Bucky."

Eventually, Bucky's shaking subsides and he relaxes, slumping over in Steve's arms, his cheek against Steve's shoulder. Steve sighs and decides that he can't just leave Bucky there in the living room, so he hefts him up and carries him to the bedroom, laying him down and curling around him, one leg hooked over his ankle.

He's woken up very suddenly by the extremely unpleasant sensation of a metal hand curled around his throat and a weight on his hips. Steve's just able to croak out what might have been _what?_ before Bucky's hand tightens and a voice snarls, "Why the hell am I in here?"

Steve tries to answer, he really does, but the lack of air in his lungs is not helping. He kicks Bucky off him and they scuffle for a second on the bed, roll off, and land with Steve on top, pinning Bucky down by the arms.

"Buck, calm down, jeez. You were having a nightmare and I let you sleep with me."

"I—don't—" Bucky looks dazed and childish again, something stripped away from his face. "Steve—I'm—I—"

"'S okay. Just don't choke me out, okay?"

"Okay." Steve lets Bucky up then, and Bucky sits and scoots away until his back hits the bed, covering his face with his hands and breathing hoarsely. "I just. Wasn't expecting it. "

"Does it scare you?" Steve asks. "Being close to someone? You know, physically?"

"I don't remember what that's even like," says Bucky.

Steve reaches over and lays a hand on where Bucky's neck meets his shoulder. "Like this," he says.

Bucky stares at him like he's seeing the sun for the first time. "Steve," he says. "Don't."

"You scared? I'm not gonna hurt you, Bucky." Steve lets his hand slip up and cup Bucky's face, and Bucky tenses like he's expecting a blow. "Hey, relax. You're with me."

"You have bruises on your neck," Bucky says, staring at Steve's neck. "I—did that."

"Doesn't matter. Steve lets his fingertips glide, feather-light, over Bucky's neck and shoulder and chest. His thumb flicks across Bucky's nipple and Bucky goes rigid, jerks and presses his head against the side of the bed as his lower body squirms and jerks toward Steve.

"Shit," he says, and blinks a few times, very slowly.

Steve moves his other hand up and brushes against the other one. Bucky gives out one long, loud whine, his teeth bared, and then he flips up and over the bed, curled up, breathing slowly and steadily, his metal hand fisted in the sheets.

"Too much?" Steve asks.

"Just. Just give me a second," Bucky pants, and Steve waits until he comes back down, sliding off the edge of the bed and sitting back on the floor. "It's—it's like, in my gut I really, really want to, you know, but my brain keeps—" he made a vague shaky hand motion "—on me."

Steve opens his mouth to answer, but his phone rings, and he groans and leaves Bucky on the floor while he bounds into the kitchen to answer it. "Yeah?"

It's Hill. "Captain Rogers? We need you at HQ. We've got intel on your ghost."

Steve winces. "I'm—ah, I'm in the middle of a related operation right now."

"It's 6 AM, sir. Have you been up since three?"

"It's been an ongoing operation. I'll call you back. Sorry. Sorry!" He hangs up on Hill and goes back to the bedroom. Bucky is still there, still sitting on the floor.

"It's a false lead," he says. "They don't have any real intel on me."

"I figured as much." Steve sits back down. "So, where were we?"

"Here," says Bucky, and lets his own hand flick across his chest.

"Right." Steve offers him a grin and spreads his hand out across Bucky's chest, letting the warmth of his skin soak into Bucky's. "How's that?"

Bucky's eyes are half-lidded, dazed. "Good," he breathes, and lets his head fall back as Steve traces the lines of his chest, his flat stomach, the line between the sweatpants and his skin. "Steve," he says faintly, shakily. "Steve, don't." He brings his flesh-and-bone hand up to cover his face, and Steve lifts his hand and waits until Bucky drops it and leans forward, pressing his forehead to Steve's.

"Easy, Sergeant," says Steve gently. There might be more to his sentence, but Bucky doesn't wait around to hear it. He leans in and crushes his mouth to Steve's, his stubble scraping Steve's chin and lips and cheeks.

Startled, Steve pulls back. "Buck—"

"Shut up," snarls Bucky, and crawls into Steve's lap, his metal hand digging into the floor to brace himself and his flesh hand tangled in Steve's T-shirt. "Just, just shut _up_ —"

"You sure about this?" gasps Steve.

For answer, Bucky throws himself on top of Steve, tackling them both to the floor, and jerks his hips against Steve's in an erratic, desperate rhythm.

Steve chokes and pitches his own hips up, shocked at how quickly he's gotten hard and digging his fingers into Bucky's sides. "Buck," he says. He can't force himself to think of the rights and wrongs of the situation. He doesn't really need to, anyway—of all the wrong things going on here, a quickie on the floor is the lowest thing on the moral ladder.

Bucky's hoarsely panting into his ear, his hair getting into Steve's mouth. He moves clumsily down, rolls his pelvis again and _oh_ _that felt good_ thinks Steve. "Do that again," he groans, and Bucky tries to replicate his movement.

 (Incredible, how a man who's efficiently killed over fifty people in the last decade is the exact opposite of efficient in a situation like this.)

"Show me," he rasps, and Steve reaches up, grabs his hips and moves him where he wants him. Bucky finds the rhythm, catches it, and ruts up against Steve, his breathing getting a little erratic.

"Jesus," says Steve, and Bucky kisses him again, his mouth tasting of pennies. "Bucky, I can't—I need—" He can't get the words out, can't bring himself to stop Bucky—because clearly Bucky needs this, and Steve can't stop Bucky now, no matter how much his impending climax is coiling and tight in his belly even though he won't be able to come with two layers of fabric between him and—

Bucky groans into Steve's shoulder and lifts his hips for a second, jerking Steve's pants down around his knees and shucking off his own pants. Steve lets his head thud against the floor, lets his mouth drop open as Bucky lowers his naked body back down and presses up against him, bumping and rubbing clumsily, both of them leaking all over the other.

A few minutes into it, Bucky is spasming and shaking and biting into Steve's shoulder, unable to finish, and Steve pulls him off, calms him down with a few soothing noises. "You're okay. It's okay," he tells him.

"Steve," Bucky croaks, and drags his hand across his face. "I got to—I can't—it's not—"

"I got you," Steve reassures him, and pulls him up on the bed, yanking his pants back up, grabbing lube out of the drawer and laying him down on his left side (not exposed but not shut out either). He crouches over him on all fours, laying soft kisses up and down his good arm, his shoulder, his neck, his cheek.

Bucky visibly relaxes, and Steve mentally congratulates himself as he slicks his hand up and slips it down between Bucky's legs to loosely fist his cock. "You wanna roll over for me?"

A whine catches in Bucky's throat and he rolls over, spreading out under Steve, who spreads one hand out on Bucky's thigh and starts giving him a rhythm to meet with the other. Bucky lets a soft noise escape his throat and lifts his hips, meeting Steve's hand as he pumps at his leaking and flushed cock.

"Steve," he moans, and bares his teeth in a grimace. "Shit— _Steve_ —"

"Got you," Steve murmurs, and Bucky's eyelids flutter and his back arches and he lets out the most naked, plaintive sound Steve's ever heard as he comes, spurts of white come arcing over his belly and splattering his skin and Steve's hand.

Steve keeps working at him until Bucky goes limp, and then he stands up and goes to the bathroom for a wet towel, splashing his face with cold water until the tent in his sweats disappears.

When he comes back , Bucky is sitting on the edge of the bed, head hanging. "Let me clean you up," Steve says, and eases him back down to the mattress, wiping him clean and tossing the towel into the bathroom.

There are tears in Bucky's eyes, and when Steve flops down next to him, Bucky rolls over, crawls up next to Steve, presses against him so tightly that Steve can almost feel the humming from his metal arm.

"Thanks," Bucky says, and drifts off to sleep, his face pressed into Steve's chest.

In the morning, he's gone, nothing but a slight indentation in the mattress next to Steve.

 _He'll come back,_ thinks Steve, and gets a shower. _He'll come back. He's got to._

The file from Kiev is on Steve's counter.

Steve puts it away.

Some things should never be left out for the world to see.

_(and somewhere there is a man walking down a side alley, a man who will always be the Winter Soldier and never truly Bucky Barnes—but he is finding his place between the two. no matter how hard he tries he will always have winter in his bones and blood in his teeth_

_healing hurts but he is trying.)_


End file.
